Lords of the North
by Shellback
Summary: A short fiction for my university writing class, also based on a Cold One Knights unit I'm building for my Druchii army, short but sweet, I hope I do well on it.


Lords of the North

"Some of them understand why it is there and some of them do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, even the abundance of their harvests, depends wholly on our abominable misery." Makkel Ar'Neth spoke softly, his pale lips speaking with an unbridled grace.

The other eleven sat quietly, tending their meal and feeding their monstrous mounts in throws of meat and bone. Ju'Raiche, the youngest of the dark elf riders gazed in wonder at his aged companion. His face showing no sign of mortal age, yet his four-hundred and seventy-six of life betrayed fully by his youthful appearance. Ju'Raiche pondered his companion and often times leader, his eyes were bright, like their heathen kin's, it was something Makkel scorned of himself and it is the reason he murdered his parents when he was strong enough to betray them.

"Shut up Ar'Neth." A tall elf stood, he was the brawniest of the twelve. "You wine about such happiness and beauty yet your tone and your eyes, if just their colour betray your words as entirely as our misery here in the wastes." The elf spat a glob of chewed meat at his companion and stormed over to his cold-one. He offered the great beast what appeared to be a human leg, the animal snatched it greedily and hardly chewed it before the leg was gone. "There is beauty in the Black Arks of our proud homes, where our great families dwell, but happiness…" Rage swelled within the elf, his knuckles cracking like snapped wood as he clenched his fists. "The druchii, our people, do not know happiness other than the sacrifices of our great god Kaine! Not since the years when our beloved country Naggaroth was as young as me did druchii know the happiness you speak of!"

Ar'Neth grimaced at the words, they struck him deep, but all he would ever acknowledge is hatred in front of his comrades. His mind swam in the past, tales from his father of the light of Naggaroth betrayed his people's way. He was a dark elf, a lord of the night, master of terror, the druchii did not dwell on the idle pleasantries of their heathen kin. He drew his toothed sword and levelled it at his companion. "Speak again of my eyes…" His heart pounded in his chest, a fight with Garen T'Refindel was never wise, but to save his pride he had to prove his mind was sturdy as his sword.

Garen stepped up to his kin, eyes like grey fire he peered into the soul of his brother rider, daring him to draw the first line of blood. He raised his hand and took hold of the sword by the blade and drew it across his face. Crystal blue blood ran from the cut, the cold-one's perked their heads, but it was their own blood the elves spilled, not the tasty red blood they enjoyed drinking.

Garen cupped Makkel's cheek in his bloodied hand and brought his face close to his, their black manes shrouding them from their fellows. "Never believe for a moment I would not give my life if it would restore our people's former glory brother. I weep for our damned fate, but it is in our martial valour that we must treasure and find beauty in, not for many millennia will the druchii love as the heathens do, it is not something," He paused and averted his gaze. "We are not capable of comprehending yet."

"Or again." Makkel pushed his forehead against his friends' and they parted.

"If you two are finished courting one another." Dreeter Boshi'net sneered at them. "We should set course west for the Tower of Dun'kiste. Our rations are growing thin, and from the tracks of our foes, it would appear that they were but a scouting force sent to repress the might of the lone tower, I believe once they have bypassed Dun'kiste they will make for Ghrond."

"Quiet beast!" Garen roared, the cold-ones all lowered their heads and grunted. "I meant the elf you stupid creatures!" His own cold-one belched and looked at him.

"Dreeter is correct Garen. The forces of chaos are not as feeble as many believe." Ju'Raiche purred, his silky voice poured over the party like a calming breeze. "But reinforcing Dun'kiste is not the correct path." His glare turned to Dreeter. "We seek out their master and kill him, we will scout out his god, if he follows none we will raid his camp and murder him and all that keep us from retreat. Not hide behind excess forces like cowards."

"And if he follows a god?" Dreeter scowled at him, his voice a low growl, he hated being undermined by one so young.

"If he should bear the blessings of Khorne Dreeter, Garen will guide him to death, if he is cloaked in Tzeentch's garb, Makkel will murder the beast. If the creature should bathe in the fortunes of Slannesh, I will take pleasure in killing the wretch." Ju'Raiche savoured the moment while his fellows caught the jest. "Should he harbour the infectious death of Nurgle Dreeter," His voice became cold. "You will tend to his wounds by opening them wider still until he bleeds nothing at all and even his infectious father cannot restore his life."

The elves nodded in agreement, with the exception of Dreeter, who seethed clutching the hilt of his sword, how he yearned to end this miserable druchii's life where he sat. He stared at the pale skinned elf, his dark hair pulled neatly back, his eyes like black pits. He knew Ju'Raiche as the fastest of the twelve, he would counter any attack the dark elf would throw at him, Ju'raiche was a true born elite, Dreeter stood little chance without being thoroughly sure he had a sound plan. Faster than light Dreeter was on his feet, four of the others moved to stop him but a glance from Makkel stopped them. Dreeter pulled his dagger and cut deep into his offhand. He pressed the bloody palm against the breast of Ju'Raiche and spoke. "I will live to see you grow old and slow, and I will keep you alive until such time, so that I may watch you suffer pain only known to the Witch King himself!"

The troupe marched their mounts quickly through the forest until they could hear the beat of drums and the screams of slaves. The furthest rider kicked his cold-one in front, riding east to flank the camp. Makkel dismounted and untied a pack from his saddle. The others followed suit, retrieving armour and war gear for the ensuing battle. When the scout returned, he pulled the black garb from his face. "Followers of Khorne." He spoke and dismounted.

Makkel and the others watched him unpack, he was out of breath and looked tired. "They were no more than sentries." He hissed sensing their stares. "One got in a hit and winded me, do not pity me brothers I will ride to my death should the need arise."

"You will ride on our rear and cover our escape route. Kill only the stragglers Markest." Makkel ordered glancing over at him sternly. "I haven't the want to bring back corpses."

"It is our destiny to die druchii." The scout growled. "Do not forget which blood flows through your bossom, the blood of the druchii is cold and uncaring, or have the wastes tainted you?"

"Kill the stragglers, or I'll kill you." Makkel spat and drew up his mailed sleeve and thrust it into the mouth of his cold-one. The giant lizards' eyes bore into his soul and made no move to rend the arm from its master. This was a sign that the blood of the cold-one was still thick in the dark elves veins, and of respect between beast and master.

Ju'Raiche called upon a fierce wind, it came from the west and brought whipping sands to cover their advance. The riders embarked, pushing their beasts full on until they were running flat out into the disoriented crowd of murderers. They cut a bloody path through the camp until the delighted howl from Garen alerted them that he had engaged the leader. The fighting force kept a tight circle of death around their brother , who worked furiously to catch the champion off guard, killing all who dared to assist their master. The combat lasted for many minutes, until sweat and every enemy in the army knew what was happening and came crashing down upon the twelve. It was then that Garen chose to strike, as the circle collapsed he drove home his axe into the frustrated lord and took his head as a trophy. They bounded back to the forest, beating against the wind and the shrieks and cries of the furious warriors charging behind them, fleeing to the safety of the eastern towers.


End file.
